


Under the Cover of Shadow

by Atanih88



Category: DC Extended Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:34:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24723883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atanih88/pseuds/Atanih88
Summary: An alternate meeting in an alternate world where Clark discovers the Gotham Bat is not just a myth and gains a little piece of himself back in the process.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 19
Kudos: 197
Collections: Superbat Reverse Bang 2020





	Under the Cover of Shadow

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Superbat Reverse Bang](https://superbatreversebang.tumblr.com/) 2020 as a companion to Lovelastart's lovely art piece which you can find [here](https://lovelastart.tumblr.com/post/620917174086877184/my-art-piece-for-superbat-reverse-bang-2020-its). Please do click to go and look as only the fic banner is embedded in this post.
> 
> I don't think I've ever had such a rough time with a fic before, but a lot of it was attributed to our current climate. I'm very thankful that the mods, Lovelastart and my beta, who were as patient with me as they were. I wanted to include as many of the artist's original wishes as I could and although I haven't quite managed it all, I hope you'll still enjoy the end result, even if only a little.

Metropolis doesn’t lose its light in the dark. When Clark opens his eyes, the bedroom ceiling is painted in various shades, some dark blue, some soft pale yellow. Lois used to be a warm weight beside him, always curled in the opposite direction.

Clark turns his head, can almost breathe her scent.

Her hair used to spill over the space between them, thick and gleaming even in the dim of night.

They used to sleep wrapped around each other.

_Kal._

Slowly, he sits up. He rubs the heels of his hands over his eyes and turns his attention back to the window. He hadn’t drawn the curtains closed on the balcony and even with the high-rise buildings surrounding him, Clark has a glimpse of the stretch of sky. It makes him long for the comfort of sun on his skin.

A glance at the clock on the bedside table shows it’s 02:10 AM. He’s not going back to sleep; he knows that much.

With a sigh, he eases himself out of the bed. He doesn't look at the side of the bed that belonged to Lois.

It’s not the done thing—but Clark lets himself do it, needs it right now. Right there in the bedroom, he lets his body grow lighter, his feet lifting off the floor until his hover scant inches from it. He lets that lightness carry his feet to the kitchen, passing through their apartment in the quiet dark. Tension seeps out of his back and his shoulders, leaving the long length of him feeling loose. He touches down as lightly as if he’d never lost touch with gravity in the first place.

The kitchen is brighter than the rest of the place. The emergency stairs are directly beside the window and under the pool of a streetlamp. It spills into the room, unapologetically bright. Not that Clark needs the assist.

He plucks a glass from the drying rack. For a moment the quiet rush of water disrupts the silence as he fills the glass. He gulps it down before filling it again and downing it just as fast as the first. He wipes at the drops that spill down his chin and onto his throat and then washes the cup, mind elsewhere.

Clark can’t even call it a dream. He sees nothing in it. Just a blur. And then a voice says his name. His other name. His Kryptonian name.

He’d known it. But he’d never heard anyone say it. Not until the dreams started. And he can never go back to sleep afterwards. 

Clark glances back in the direction of the bedroom. He should be used to it by now, the quiet.

He hears it then, picks the sound up from miles away. Across the river. 

Clark sets the glass down and moves to the fire scape door. He waits, lets the immediate thickness of the silence fall away.

He hears it again. 

Damn it.

He knows better. He does.

If he is seen—

This time he doesn’t think about it, levitates without a thought and seconds later, he slips out through the balcony, dressed in the only dark clothes he owns, hood over his head. His feet are bare when he lifts up into the chilled night air. He doesn’t feel it.

He can hear it, still going.

But the itch has been under his skin for too long and Clark can’t think about the consequences of what he’s about to do. Doesn’t think about what happens if he’s seen. If this gets back to his superiors, to his mother. To Lois. Even after everything, she would still rip into him over it. 

The sounds are coming from Gotham.

Clark hovers, mind clearing for a moment. Not only are Kryptonians forbidden to use their powers without a direct okay from their Captain, it’ll be ten times worse if a Metropolis PD officer is found on Gotham territory not minding his own business.

There’s a sharp grunt, the distinct slide of a body scraping its way down a building.

Clark goes.

The stream of air as it whips over him is like ice but, despite the situation, Clark feels a smile tug at the corner of his lips. He hasn’t flown like this—he hasn’t flown like this since his last visit to his mother. 

Kansas is all stars and darkness and stretches of rich fields that swallow him up and let him fly into the clouds without prying eyes. Not if he’s slow enough. 

Even in Kansas, though, anything too fast would be picked up but the military.

In Metropolis the risk is always tenfold. 

Too many eyes. 

Too many people wanting an excuse to prove why Kryptonians should never have been allowed to settle, to enter human society. It wouldn’t take much to kick off a witch hunt. There have been enough attempts at that during Clark’s lifetime. Enough that when Clark had revealed to his mother that he was moving to Metropolis to join Metropolis PD, she’d almost begged him to stay. Almost. She’d just about held it in.

Clark doubts his mother would have been able to hold it in if he’d announced he was joining Gotham PD instead.

Even at this time, Metropolis glitters like a beacon, its brightness existing in its very air. 

It disappears completely as Clark crosses the river, his reflection nothing but a shape gliding over water. He flies as low as he dares and takes in the sharp, crowded buildings that make up Gotham. Even the colour is different, the buildings all but black, the few lights peering out from windows a seedy yellow. Steam curls into the air from drains and the rattle of trains at this hour echo through narrow streets.

Here, Clark speeds up, feels safer doing so when there aren’t as many open spaces. He keeps going, making sure his flight remains noiseless. The snap of the wind carries him with it as he follows the bend of the river.

He’s still locked in on the noise. Rasped breathing, struggling, the scraping sound has stopped but that laboured breathing has gotten louder and Clark doesn’t know what he’ll find when he gets there.

Clark pulls up just shy of it.

The buildings back up onto the river. They’re squat and their shutters are pulled down. There’s a board walk that goes into the water, lined on either side by boats. 

If Clark had been human he wouldn’t have spotted it. If Clark had been human, he wouldn’t have been here to begin with.

What he sees is so unexpected it freezes him for a second.

He’s heard the rumours. Of course he has. He hadn’t thought any of it was real until now.

Hanging on the side of the building by the fingertips alone, is someone in a dark suit. The mask covers half of the man’s face, sharp and pointed, booted feet scraping at the side of the wall and a heavy swathe of fabric covering him from the shoulders down, swaying with the shift of the breeze.

There’s a tinny voice, crackling—a radio, an earpiece?

_‘Master Bruce.’_

The Gotham Bat’s hold slips. The Bat drops.

Clark can’t blast to him, can’t afford the sonic boom that will echo all the way to Metropolis. It’s a small delay, maybe five seconds. It’s enough for the Bat to hit the murky water and disappear beneath.

Clark cuts into the river and hooks the weight of the Bat in the crook of his arm. They burst back into open air that stings Clark’s face.

The Bat is dead weight in his arms. Clark tucks him in closer as he hovers briefly over the boardwalk, eyes seeing through the building walls to look beyond, look for whatever had caused this but there’s nothing. No sounds, no movement, no heat signatures that draw the eye. 

But from his kitchen Clark had heard it, the unmistakeable sound of bullets hitting armour and of a smooth, sheathing slide that could be nothing else except a knife slipping through and sinking into its target.

Still vigilant, he floats down to the boardwalk and settles into a crouch, holding the Bat to him until Clark can lower him carefully to the ground. 

It takes Clark longer than he’s proud of to get with the programme. Clark stares down, hair plastered to his forehead and river water dripping from his nose and chin. The briny tang of the river is on his tongue. All he can see of the Bat are the Bat’s closed eyes and exposed jaw. 

The Gotham Bat is real.

And Clark has just pulled him out of a river.

_‘Master Bruce. Can you hear me?’_

Clark stares down at the Bat, eyes roaming. An earpiece, definitely. Or something in-built into the suit. Under the seaweed smell of the river, Clark picks up the scent of blood.

Master Bruce? He takes in the man lying so still. Is the man on comms referring to the Bat?

Clark snaps out of it and looks through the suit.

Except he can’t.

‘Wha—’ his forehead lines with creases as he tries to make sense of that and he examines the suit a little more closely and lifts a hand, pressing his palm to the flank of the suit. He runs his thumb over a tiny indentation in it. There are several of them. No bullets have penetrated but Clark can’t see beneath the armour to what’s underneath. Why can’t he see through it?

A hand snaps out, locks around his wrist and Clark’s eyes widen, more in surprise than alarm when something cold and sharp digs into his windpipe. He should’ve could’ve stopped that. _Would have_ stopped it if he hadn’t been distracted.

The weapon at his throat is as steady as the Bat’s heartbeat.

The Bat has blue eyes. 

The fierceness in them threatens to swallow Clark whole.

~

Clark should’ve known then.

~

Slowly, trying not to alarm, Clark lifts his hands up, palms out.

‘I was just checking you for injuries,’ Clark says quietly. Clark isn’t in any real danger, but the Bat doesn’t know that. Whatever weapon the Bat has pressed against Clark’s throat won’t cut through Clark’s skin. 

_‘Master Bruce, their team is closing in. If you can hear me, you need to take cover. Master Bruce?’_

The Bat stills.

It’s incredible. Clark has never seen a human with this kind of control. And he is human. A Kryptonian would not be smelling of blood and pain this way.

The hand that shoves Clark away has a lot more strength than expected. He’s so surprised by it that he forgets to actually allow the shove to push him back a step or two and the Bat cuts a sharp look his way.

‘Uh—’ Clark keeps his hands up though he’s not sure what good that’s going to do, ‘sorry.’ He eases back, kneels next to the Bat who has taken his weapon and concealed skilfully enough that even Clark hadn’t picked up where he’d stashed it.

This guy is good. Whoever he is.

Bruce. That’s his name according to whoever is on the other side of that earpiece. Probably inbuilt into the suit. Apart from the pock marks left behind by the bullets, it's seamless. 

Not seamless enough though because Clark can still smell blood and it’s getting stronger.

‘You’re bleeding,’ Clark says, gentling his voice. He feels, oddly, like he’s trying to soothe a wild and wounded animal.

The Bat looks away from him and pulls himself up in one smooth, fluid movement that has Clark blinking in confusion. The way the Bat moves doesn’t betray one hint of pain. 

‘I’m here.’ The Bat says. His voice is ridiculous, not a natural register and Clark can’t make out whether it’s being filtered and distorted through something. ‘How close are they?’

_‘You have less than three minutes, sir,’_ the voice is crisp and British and with a dryness that is impressive under the circumstances, _‘shockingly, they weren’t fooled by your rather dramatic exit strategy.’_

The Bat opens his mouth to reply but then snaps it back shut. He looks at Clark.

_‘Bruce,’_ this time the sarcastic edge is gone and a quiet worry has replaced his tone, _‘you need to leave immediately. Can you make it?’_

And now that Clark isn’t so focused on the previously-assumed-mythical being in front of him, he can hear them. They’re quiet, Clark will give them that.

Their steps are in unison, near silent to anyone else but Clark. He hears the patter of fast, precise steps as if they were right behind him. They’re rounding the building. He hadn’t seen them when he’d arrived which means they’d sprouted from somewhere during his swan dive after the Bat had fallen into the river.

‘Less than three minutes,’ Clark murmurs.

Those sharp assessing eyes are back on him and he sees the Bat’s mouth thin. They’re blue. The man’s eyes and Clark feels like the man could cut into him with them alone.

‘Guess we’ll find out,’ is all the Bat says, finally replying to the voice.

_‘I’ll be on standby.’_

The Bat doesn’t respond to that.

He pushes himself to his feet, completely. Clark follows suit. The Bat is almost as tall as Clark is, misses it only by an inch, maybe. The Bat feels larger than that though. 

The Bat disengages the cape and it falls to the ground with a flat wet sound. 

There. Clark spots it then. Dark drops spotting the concrete beneath the Bat, dripping from behind him. The snick of the knife that he’d heard. That was what had done the damage. Must be if bullets couldn’t penetrate.

‘You're Kryptonian,’ the Bat says and he’s already moving back towards the water. ‘You’re an idiot. What do you think would’ve happened if someone had seen you?’

Clark is taken abackby the hostility, though he’s not sure why. ‘No one did.’

The Bat is already striding to the edge of the bank.

‘Wait, what—’ 

The Bat slides over the edge of the bank, palms planted on the edge, lowering himself down.

The steps are closer, around the corner now.

The Bat lets out a hiss that sounds punched out and Clark’s attention snaps back to him. In a second Clark is easing himself over the edge too, arm wrapping around the Bat’s waist. He ignores the angry snarl that gets him but feels the flinch of pain that the Bat doesn’t manage to hide this time.

‘You’re injured.’ Clark lets go and hovers there, the Bat of Gotham stiff in his hold. ‘Your wound will get infected if you get back in the river.’ Yeah, so Clark shouldn’t be doing this but he’s already done it once tonight and the Bat— _Bruce_ —has already seen him do it, has seen his face too. What’s one more mistake?

He doesn’t know what the Bat planned on saying to that. The dock is flooded by the whisper sound of a multitude of steps. 

The Bat shifts in Clark’s grasp, not trying to wriggle out, Clark realises, incredulous, but positioning himself so that he has a clear range with his arm to attack if necessary.

Clark presses them both against the wall.

‘We’ll have to submerge,’ the Bat says, ‘they’ll check. There’s a sewer exit around the bend of the river, we can use it once they’ve retreated enough for us to move.’

Clark can feel wetness on the palm of his hand, thick and warm. It’s where his palm is pressed to the Bat’s waist. ‘But the wound—’

‘Wound won’t matter if they catch us.’

Okay yeah, Clark can’t really argue with that. 'I'm sorry,' Clark says and then tightens his hold on the Bat, sees the other man grit his teeth. 'Will you be able to hold—'

'Either get us in the water or let go.'

The water feels even colder this time round. It climbs up Clark's legs, soaking back into already wet clothing and attempting to weigh him down.

The Bat sucks in a lungful of air and then they're both under the surface of the water.

Clark swipes a hand up towards the surface and sends them further down into the depths of the river. He doesn't let go of the Bat. He's got the strangest feeling that if he does, the Bat will disappear in the grimy waters and Clark won't find him again.

A strong hand curls around Clark's shoulder and holds tight, fingers digging in deep.

Bright light cuts through the water and both of them tip their heads back to see. 

Clark pushes against the water to send them a little deeper, alert to any sign from the Bat that he may need to stop, or to breathe but the Bat is calm, staring up at the swimming beams with the kind of laser focus Clark is used to seeing on the field more than anything else.

He should've asked how long the Bat could hold his breath for. 

Instead, he listens in, taking in as much information as he can. Two sets of voices.

'She's going to kill us.'

'Relax. He didn't get anything.'

'Yeah, well, he saw enough. Damn freak. We should've bombed the whole damn place with him in it.'

'Yeah,' sarcasm, 'that's what we need. Gotham PD to have a reason to start getting on our ass.'

'Boss,' third voice, 'nothing. No sign of him, not even a blood trail even though we got him good with the knife a couple of times. Only thing we've found is the cape.'

'Fuck. Okay. Sweep the lower bankside. Current might have dragged him over.'

The sweep of the lights over the surface stop.

Clark makes to rise but the Bat tightens his grip in warning and keeps it that way. Clark stays put.

It's another few precious seconds of no air for the Bat before the grip on Clark finally eases. Gently, not wanting to make any sound disrupting the water despite knowing that there aren't any others around, Clark kicks up.

They break the surface with barely a ripple and the Bat breathes in, head tipped back and eyes closed. The heartbeat that Clark had been paying attention to levels out again in no time and Clark wants to know who this man is. 

'I think its safe to make our way,' Clark says, but even so, they both scan the bankside. The dock is completely silent now. 'You said something about a sewer?'

Beside him, the Bat nods.

That has Clark looking at him twice. What slice of the Bat’s face he can see has leeched of any remaining colour. He remembers that when they'd gone into the water, his hand had been coated in the Bat's blood.

'Hey, there's no one here. Chances of someone seeing us now are low.'

'Not low enough,' the Bat grits out.

'Yeah. Except you've been stabbed multiple times according to whoever is hunting you down and you got dunked into the river twice. Adding a sewer to the mix when you're like this will get you a wound infection.'

'There's nothing else for you to do here,' the Bat says. 'I'll make my own way.'

Clark firms his jaw, tightens his arms around the Bat and lifts into the air. 'Where to.' It's a demand, not a question.

The Bat might do what he wants but Clark is part of a system. A system that has rules, even if Clark has broken half a dozen of them in the past hour alone. But that's a thought for the morning when he can actually think about what he's done tonight. It's Clark's _job_ to take care of people, to make sure they're okay and to protect. And there's no way Clark is going to forget about what's happened here.

He's not just doing this out of the goodness of his heart. Clark wants to know what the Gotham Bat was doing that got him knifed and that had a gang of very unsavoury people trying to get their hands on him to do a lot worse.

Clark lifts them out of the water entirely until they're just hovering over the water again. 'Look. Let me help you. The quicker you agree, the quicker we get out of here, the less chance of getting caught. Right? I'll be careful.'

It feels like it takes the longest time. There's a wind picking up and it seems to freeze the clothes on Clark's body.

'Alright.'

The Bat's voice drags him back.

'Alright, hurry up. Follow my lead.'

'Okay,' Clark smiles, even though he doesn't feel it, 'lead the way.'

~

Clark isn't sure what he expected.

Finding himself touching down at the edge of a lake with a pristine glass house looming above him isn't it. Not when they've just passed over the wreck that is Wayne Manor.

There's a man who looks to be the same age as Clark's mother standing there, back ramrod straight. Clark isn't sure how he knew. Probably the Bat's suit—whatever kind of radio system the Bat had installed had sent a signal. It’s clearly incredibly durable if a sustained dunk in water hadn't dented it.

The man strides forward as soon as Clark is close enough.

The eyes behind his glasses are cool and analusing. They quickly take in Clark's form, assessing before turning to the man standing stubbornly at Clark's side, despite his wounds having seeped blood consistently throughout their flight over.

Clark looks from the man reaching for the Bat to the Bat himself.

It clicks into place. 

Bruce. 

Bruce Wayne.

'Not sure what all that training is for, Sir, if you're going to allow your enemies to treat you as a pincushion. If it's something you enjoy, do spare a thought for those of us who then have to patch you back together.'

'Alfred. Not now.' The Bat steps away from Clark, forcing Clark to loosen his hold on him and hobbles towards Alfred. The Bat lifts a hand and tugs the mask back and away from his face. The hair it reveals is black in the night and plastered to his skull from sweat and whatever river water had leaked in.

Bruce Wayne stands for a second, as if trying to gather strength. Then he straightens.

When he looks over his shoulder, Clark finds himself staring into his face.

'I think you better get inside. We need to talk.'

~

A Kryptonian.

Bruce fights the urge to wince and curls his hands tighter around the edge of the medical bed in the cave. Behind him, Alfred works methodically, cleaning and sewing the cuts.

Clark Kent—that's what he'd said his name was—sits on a stool nearby, a blanket around his shoulders. He'd declined a spare set of clothes.

He's young. Early thirties. Though who could tell with Kryptonians. 

'Alright,' Alfred straightens from his task and reaches for the gauze, unwinding it and beginning to wrap it around Bruce's midriff. 'I'll fetch you something to eat while you and Mr. Kent discuss things. I think we can afford to debrief tomorrow.'

'Alfred.'

'Master Bruce,' Alfred drawls and ties the gauze off with a tighter yank than necessary, 'we're not all such natural night owls such as yourself. It has been a long night. We both need the rest.' Alfred steps back and turns to Clark who is watching both them both with an amused expression. 'Mr. Kent. Thank you for your assistance tonight. I hope you forgive my rudeness, normally I would offer refreshments but—'

'No,' Kent stands up and waves it away, looking flustered, 'no, really. I'm glad I could help, please don't worry.'

Alfred nods. 'In that case, I'll retire for the night. Goodnight.'

Bruce sighs, presses a hand to the pain in his midriff. 'Goodnight, Alfred. And thanks.'

He waits until Alfred disappears from the cave and turns back to face his newest problem.

Kent watches him back, curiosity and a touch of bemusement to his expression.

'I thought you were a myth,' Kent says.

'And I thought Kryptonian's operated under strict laws,' Bruce says, tone mild. 'You didn't seem to be too worried about breaking those.'

At that, Kent glances away, silent for a moment before pushing away from the stool. He turns in the same spot to take in the cave. 

'This is incredible,' Kent murmurs.

'It's practical.'

Kent snorts and looks over his shoulder at Bruce. 'Practical? I think your rich is showing, Mr. Wayne.'

Despite himself, despite the situation, Bruce has to fight the amusement that threatens to curl the corners of his lips into a smile. 'It's the truth.' He braces himself for the pain and eases himself off of the medical bed.

'You're not from Gotham,' Bruce says, not wanting this to get derailed, 'what were you doing at the docks?'

Kent glances away from him again. He folds his arms over his chest. The pose emphasises the breadth of his shoulders and the thick ropes of his arms. Bruce flicks his eyes away from those and waits him out. 

Then: 'I heard you.'

'Excuse me?'

'I heard you. I heard you get hurt.' 

Bruce is well aware of the capabilities of Kryptonians. Their senses are superior to a human’s, no doubt about that. But this still gives him pause.

'Heard me from where? What were you doing in Gotham, Mr. Kent?'

Kent sighs, frustrated this time. He shakes his head and drags a hand through his hair, leaving bits of it standing on end. He turns to face Bruce, a defiant tilt to his jaw. 'I wasn't in Gotham, Mr. Wayne. I was just minding my own business at my apartment in Metropolis.'

Metropolis.

Were all Kryptonians this good? Because that didn't bode well. It meant that Bruce would have to rethink a lot of things about his own operations. Even though he's always been careful.

'If this is your definition of minding your own business, Mr. Kent, then I'm not sure you know what that means.'

'You know,' Kent tilts his head to the side and narrows his eyes on Bruce, 'considering I saved your life, a thank you would be nice.'

'Thanks,' Bruce says. 'Your help was much appreciated. You can go now.'

'What were you doing there?' Kent asks and it's followed by an apologetic smile. Kent lifts a hand to rub at the back of his neck. The eyes he gives Bruce are manipulative to the max. 

Bruce doesn't have to know Kent well to know that this has definitely gotten the man out of shit storms in the past. 

'See, I'm also an investigating officer with Metropolis PD. So, I hope you understand that I won't just be able to let this go.'

Bruce bites back a few choice words. 'I'm not sure that Metropolis PD would be happy to know one of its officers was breaking the law and violating the terms of the Kryptonian-UN agreement. Or that said officer would also choose to do that by overstepping his welcome and butting into things that belong with Gotham PD.'

Kent loses his smile. 'Except it wasn't Gotham PD at the docks, Mr. Wayne. It was you. Why weren't Gotham PD there? Who were those people searching for you?'

Bruce tilts his head; the smile that spreads across his face isn't a nice one. 'You really do have Metropolis written all over you.' He eases back until he's sitting on the edge of the medical bed again. 'Metropolis' finest aren't really equipped to deal with Gotham. Like I said, thank you for your help. But we've got it from here.'

'Yeah?' If anything, Bruce's words seem to have riled Clark up even further. 'From where I was standing—'

'You mean flying, swimming—'

'You didn't have anything but three stab wounds and some thugs closing in on you, Mr. Wayne.' Kent moves closer. Close enough that Bruce has to tilt his head back slightly to keep him fully in view. 

Bruce doesn't like it. 

'If it weren't for me and my _butting in_ , I think we both know you'd probably be lying at the bottom of that river you seemed so fond of going into.'

Huh. So Metropolis boy has some bite. Not bad.

'I wouldn't,' Bruce said, 'but if it makes you feel better.'

'Why couldn't I see through your suit?'

'Because I don’t need nosy Kryptonians poking their noses where they're not wanted.' 

'They said you were looking for something, but that you didn't find it. What were you looking for Mr. Wayne?'

Bruce stares at him. Then he gets up.

Alright. Let the golden boy see. See how he can handle what Gotham is mired in day, after day, after day.

'They were wrong,' Bruce says. He moves over to his computer.

The overhead lights light up the cave and a dozen computer screens flicker to life, cursor blinking alone in a screen of black, awaiting command. Bruce makes quick work of it.

Kent wanders over to stand by him and Bruce wonders if all Kryptonians radiate this much heat.

He sees the moment where the penny drops. The moment where Clark's face changes colour and his mouth firms.

Bruce has to force his own face to remain passive as he turns to the same information Kent is currently reading.

'Like I said,' Bruce says, voice gruff from the strain of staying neutral, 'this isn't Metropolis.'

~

The curtains slide over Clark as he slips back inside through the open doors of his balcony. The sun slips around him and paints the floor of the bedroom orange.

His clothes have long since dried from the soak in the river but the smell of the water clings to him.

It all flashes through his mind again. The pictures. The reports buried in code after code that Clark never would've been able to get past. Children. All children. In Gotham, yes. But it went beyond that. Way beyond that. And Bruce Wayne. Of all people.

Clark closes his eyes against it all and shakes his head. 

God, he's tired. 

He's tired of having to wear a mask every day, of holding every bit of his being back every day. And that moment of lightness, of freedom that he'd tasted lifting into the air in the night is like a drug in his blood. But even that is buried now beneath the knowledge of what's happening, of what has always been happening under Gotham's convenient shadow.

He drags out the bedroom chair so that it sits under the rising sun and sinks into it, covers his face with his hands and just sits there. Breathing.

In that moment, Lois' absence is acute.

~

She'd left with a press of her lips to Clark's temple and a murmured goodbye.

~

Clark only moves because the river and Bruce's blood is still on his skin, on his hands, even if it can't be seen.

He turns the water to boiling hot and scrubs himself raw. It's enough that it matches how he's feeling inside.

Clark thinks about what someone like Bruce Wayne, the Bat, would think of him right now.

Bruce Wayne would tell him to stick to Metropolis and his nice orderly life.

That's what he _had_ told Clark, before showing him to the door.

How he can expect Clark to just forget what he'd shown him. Children—

It’s later in the morning and Clark is on autopilot going through his morning routine. 

Clark stops and presses a hand to his eyes. He's dragged half of his uniform on but his shirt is still unbuttoned. His badge is on top of the comforter. Its shine looks a little too righteous and a little too useless.

The TV is on in the background and Clark picks up the reporters voice easily enough.

His heart doesn't sink. His stomach doesn't drop. He feels nothing when he hears it.

_'We have breaking news. Reports are coming in of video footage that appears to show a person flying over Gotham harbour—'_

Clark switches the TV off.

~

The lake is still.

It always is at this time of night.

Alfred has already gone home. The house is empty. 

It's humid and when a soft breeze slips over him, Bruce tilts his head back into it, enjoying the coolness against the damp touch of sweat at his nape. The tumbler in his hand is light, only a little touch of the brandy left.

Bruce isn't sure what it is that alerts him to it. But it’s like an awareness blooming over his skin and doing more to disrupt the humidity than the breeze had.

He tilts his head back down, wets his lips with the remainder of the brandy.

Bruce takes a step back and turns. 'I had a feeling you were going to be stubborn.'

Clark's eyes in the dark are a deep blue. They're a completely different shade to Bruce's. This time, there are no ugly fitting black clothes in the name of subterfuge. Clark is in jeans and a t-shirt and his hair looks like its been through a hurricane.

'If you flew—'

'I drove. I left my bike parked outside. I hope that's okay.'

Bruce rakes his eyes over him. 'Wouldn't have pictured you on a bike. Doesn't explain how you got inside my house.'

Clark shifts on the spot, rubs at the back of his neck and gives him that same apologetic look and a sheepish smile. Baby blues. Isn't that what they're called when someone does that? Bruce wonders if Clark is even aware that he's doing it.

'Okay, so I flew over the house. But that was after I drove here and parked out front. I promise.' And then, belatedly: 'Sorry.'

Bruce waits.

Clark's smile fades. 

Bruce finishes his drink. Throughout it all, Clark's attention stays on him, unmoving. It takes Bruce back to the docks for a moment. Water closing over his head and those eyes both stubborn and promising Bruce, of all people, that things would be all right.

~

Bruce should’ve known then.

~

The wounds are still fresh. They pull every time Bruce moves so he's kept his activities lighter the past few days. His lower back is also still feeling that knock against the wall. If Alfred were here, Bruce would be on the receiving end of scathing look the second he'd touched the brandy. He's not as young as he used to be and pain meds are a must. They just don’t go too well with the alcohol.

Bruce isn’t like the man standing in front of him. 

If Bruce hadn't seen it with his own eyes, if he didn't know as much about Kryptonians as he did, he might not have seen it. Clark walks with the air of someone who has spent his entire life making himself small. 

'I know you told me I couldn't help,' Clark says. 'And I know the other night I was reckless—I could've been seen—'

Bruce examines the empty glass. 'You were seen.'

Clark's chin comes up. ' _A_ person was seen. There's nothing to say that it was me.' And then, when Bruce doesn't contest that. 'I've searched all week. Anything I could get my hands on but there's nothing. Not a hint. Not with Metropolis PD. Not with Gotham PD.'

Bruce isn't surprised. 'It's funny.'

'What is?' Clark asks and Bruce can see it creeping in, irritation, arrogance.

Yeah. He _is_ young.

Bruce shakes his head and heads inside. He doesn't bother motioning for Clark to follow, knows he'll do so regardless. 'The faith you have in that badge you carry around your neck. Almost like you think people can't be bought.'

Before he can make it any further he feels fingers wrap around his wrist. Like steel. The sudden stop sends a throb through his wounds, tugging sharply on the one at his back and he feels a distinct tear, but he keeps his face blank. 

Bruce drops his eyes down to the hand holding him in place. 

Clark isn't holding on too tight. The force is controlled. There's enough ease in it for Bruce to know it wouldn't take more than a thought on Clark's part to snap it.

The thought of that is—

'Don't laugh at me,' Clark's voice is quiet. He stands close enough that his breath fans over Bruce’s shoulder, close enough that Bruce can catch the hint of satisfying citrus that makes him think of wet skin and hot water.

The heat is still there, pouring off Clark as if he were a power engine, ready to plug in and bring life to everything around him. 

Bruce stands very still. 'I wasn't laughing.'

Clark opens his mouth to say something else but then his expression changes, nostrils flaring slightly. He narrows his eyes on Bruce. 'You're bleeding.'

Yeah. Bruce guessed as much. 'Maybe you should think twice before grabbing someone.'

Clark drops Bruce's wrist like it's on fire and takes several steps back.

'Just come inside.'

~

The cave is as fascinating now as it was the first time Clark had been inside it.

But his attention is on the man in front of him.

Bruce is different today. Before he'd smelled overwhelmingly of sweat, blood and river. Today he's slick and put together even though he's just in a t-shirt and slacks. He smells of expensive cologne and brandy.

'What's your poison, Kent?'

'Clark. And I'm fine, thanks.'

Bruce shrugs. 'Suit yourself.' He walks over to the medical bay and pulls off his t-shirt. There's a smear of blood on his lower back. 'The reason why you didn't find anything is because the departments have been bought. If this was something that could be handled by the police department alone, do you think the Bat would need to step in? There are still good people in the PD. But nowadays, the bad are starting to outweigh the good.'

Clark sees him reach for the first aid kit.

'Where's—Alfred? Was that his name?'

'Night off. I can assure you I've dressed wounds by myself before,' Bruce says. 

The smell of the antiseptic tickles in Clark's nose but he's distracted from it by the sight of Bruce's back. The other day, he hadn't watched as Alfred had tended to Bruce's wounds. He'd sat away from them as the two had worked and talked, had done his best not to eavesdrop.

'Um, let me help,' Clark says, already moving forward even as he says it. Bruce looks nonplussed when Clark takes his supplies from him. Under his fingers, Bruce's back is cool. It's riddled with scars. Cuts, bullet wounds, bruising along the lower half of his back.

The blood is seeping, squeezing out thickly through a torn stitch. This is one of the new additions that Bruce had gained from the previous night. Clark cleans it with gentle fingers. Beneath his touch, Bruce goes still. Neither of them speak while Clark works, back hunched so he can be precise in his work as he cleans and then covers the wound. 'I can't do stitches,' he murmurs. 

'That's fine.'

Clark nods even though Bruce can't see it. He sets his hand against Bruce's waist, steadying himself as he tapes down the gauze over the tear and when he's done, Clark presses it down gently, just to make sure it’s set properly. The sharp breath Bruce draws in at the action makes Clark stop. 

‘Sorry, did that hurt?'

Bruce glances over his shoulder at him and Clark freezes. He hadn't realised how close they were. 'No.' He doesn't say anything else. 

Funny. Clark can feel the steady beat of Bruce's heart against the palm of his hand. It makes Clark want to press his hand into Bruce a little more firmly, a peculiar urge to fill his hand with it. So Clark does it, fingers extending, stretching out his hand to encompass more skin.

'Your records say you live with a partner.'

Clark stiffens. 'You did a check on me?'

'Of course.'

'Um.' Clark exerts pressure where his hand is still pressed to Bruce's flank. 'Was. She was. I don't—we don't. We're not.' He huffs out a breath and then chuckles, laughing at himself. 'I don't have a partner anymore.'

Bruce glances over his shoulder at him and Clark freezes.

Clark lets go and steps back. 'You're done.'

Those blue, blue eyes stay on him. 

So Clark looks away. 'Tell me more.'

Bruce turns, pulling his t-shirt off the med bed. 'You're sure you want to know?' He tugs the t-shirt back over his head, eases it down with care.

'I want to know. Tell me how high this goes. I want to help.'

~

What they’re trading in? Kryptonians. Children. Six to ten years of age.

Harvesting them for organs.

It takes them six weeks to lock it down. 

Six weeks.

~

It goes all the way up to the Mayor’s niece.

Clark can’t look his Chief in the face.

~

Bruce isn’t a talker. Clark knows Bruce never forgets that Clark is there.

Sometimes they’re huddled together, sharing thoughts back and forth, going over newly found information until Bruce is rubbing violently at his eyes. Other times they’re each in an opposite corner of the cave, grim and weighed down by what they’re seeing.

Clark’s apartment starts to gain dust.

Alfred starts to add an extra plate at the table.

Clark begins to forget to miss Lois.

He wonders what it is about brandy that Bruce likes so much. 

Whenever Bruce has it, it always leaves a shine on Bruce’s lips.

~

It’s only a blood drop.

It takes a second to fall. It splashes, near silent. Nothing more than a dark spec on the cold uneven concrete floor. 

In the middle of the screams, the begging and the tears on young rounded cheeks, in the middle of the gunfire lighting up the rafters like camera flashes in a dark room, Clark hears the hit. Smells it like it’s bloomed in water to reach every corner of the warehouse. 

He hears the grunt that follows. 

This gunshot is different from the others. 

This one hits Bruce. This one punctures through.

Clark grits his teeth. 

He barely feels the ceiling as he blasts through it. 

There’s a crunch as he sends one man flying, a strangled scream as he crushes a wrist. The gun rattles to the ground. 

Bruce is leaning against the wall, head tilted back, veins standing out on his neck and teeth gritted. His hand is pressed to his flank. 

‘Get the rest of them out,’ Bruce says. Except it’s not in Bruce’s voice. The Gotham Bat’s voice is a warped thing, distorted and meant to intimidate. 

Clark looks down. 

The downstairs is flooded with men. Clark can hear the children’s screams. Once glance is enough for him to see beyond the floor, to see the children tripping over themselves to huddle in a corner as multiple guns lifted and pointed in their direction. The bullets wouldn’t cause permanent damage. Because these kids were just like Clark—but they will hurt. They will subdue. These kids are too young. 

‘Go,’ Bruce grits out. 

And Clark wants to argue. Wants to snap at him and tell him to stop being stupid. But Bruce is right. Bruce is almost always right. 

Clark goes through the hole he’s just made. The men don’t see him as he cuts through them. 

Being able to move like this, naturally, without having to check himself should feel like a blessing. It doesn’t. Not when he can hear Bruce above him, taking on the armed masked people rushing him while he’s wounded. 

_Bruce can take care of himself. Get the kids out. Get the kids out._

~

Clark gets the kids out.

The warehouse goes dark and the sirens ring out through the night as they blaze their way in red and blue.

~

By the time they’re done questioning Clark, the time he’s sure the kids are in good hands— _Jim Gordon, trust only Jim Gordon_ —and on their way to the Wayne Foundation Home, by the time Clark has convinced the officers that he doesn’t need a ride home—

~

The Bat is nowhere to be found.

~

Handing in his resignation is. Cathartic.

‘What are you planning to do?’ Lois flicks the plastic lid of the coffee cup with her thumbnail. Flick. Flick. Flick.

The café is only a few weeks old, still shiny and attracting an array of customers with its cake displays that make Clark’s mouth water despite the listlessness that has dogged him the last couple of weeks. 

The family huddled around a circular table are having a riot, the little baby in his mother’s lap letting out peals and peals of laughter that manage to tug up the corners of Clark’s mouth despite his mood.

Clark turns back to her, the traces of the smile still playing around his mouth. ‘I have something lined up actually.’

Lois stops playing with the cup. ‘Really? What?’

‘Promise you won’t yell at me?’

‘Clark.’

‘The Daily Planet has offered me a job actually. I’m surprised Perry didn’t mention it to you.’

To his surprise, Lois claps her hands together and laughs. ‘Clark! That’s great news.’ Her grin turns wry. ‘Besides, I’ve always thought you had that in you.’ A tinge of sadness softens the brightness of her expression. ‘I remember when you’d just sit and talk my articles through with me. You’re an amazing man, Clark.’

Hearing that doesn’t hurt like it used to. But it does make him miss it. Those afternoons sitting curled up together, her feet in his lap as he’d read through and commented while Lois dosed, recovering from a night of no sleep and pure adrenalin and coffee.

‘I’m sorry, Lo.’

Lois shakes her head, still smiling. ‘Don’t be. We still have each other, right?’

In response Clark just reaches for her hand, presses a chaste kiss to the back of it. ‘Love you, Lo.’

‘I know,’ she sighs, ‘I better get going.’ She stands up and shrugs into her jacket. She dips down to kiss him on the cheek. ‘We should do this more often.’

Clark stays behind, taking his time. He doesn’t know how long he sits there. Only that by the time he comes to, the family have left too and his coffee has gone cold. He gathers his things and throws the strap of his bag over his head.

The bright day spills over him as he leaves and he breathes it in, walking towards his bike.

Bruce is leaning on his bike.

It feels a bit like what Clark has always imagined it would feel to have his breath knocked out of him. Because it’s been two and a half weeks since the warehouse. Of no word. Even to Alfred. Bruce is looking down at Clark’s bike, a hand stroking up the handle. 

It takes a moment before Clark can make himself move.

He dodges the pedestrians who give him a wide birth. 

Despite handing in his resignation, Clark is still a part of Metropolis PD and his uniform still marks him out as a Kryptonian officer.

Bruce’s eyes, when he glances up, are bloodshot. There are circles under them. Everything else about him though is immaculate. He’s gathering a few looks from people, some who recognise him but think it can’t possibly be. Others who think he’s familiar but don’t pay it anymore attention than that.

Clark does a sweep of the road, expecting to see a car waiting for Bruce somewhere with Alfred inside it.

Bruce must see him looking because he stops running his hand over the bike and wraps his hand around the handle instead. ‘I was thinking you could give me a ride.’

Clark stops in front of him. He chokes out a laugh. ‘Bruce.’ He shakes his head. He’s not sure what’s happening. Not sure what the feeling is that’s tightening his stomach and making his pulse beat at his temple, at his throat. ‘You—’

‘I know.’ Bruce takes his hand off the bike and shoves it into his pocket. He doesn’t drop his gaze though. Looks Clark right in the face. That’s it. That’s all he says. Doesn’t give Clark anything more.

And that’s all Clark’s going to get. He knows that. Knows that Bruce won’t compromise.

Clark walks closer, until he’s close enough to touch.

‘Are you hurt?’ Clark asks. He’s tempted, tempted to just let himself slip through the layers that are nothing to his eyes and check for himself. Except he doesn’t want that. Knows that he has to let Bruce show him himself.

Bruce inclines his head watching Clark through narrowed eyes. ‘Nothing that won’t heal.’

It’s unexpected. An admission of sorts. Not enough. But Clark finds that he can take it for now.

‘I heard you quit the PD,’ Bruce says.

And this is something else that Clark will have to get used to if he wants this. If Bruce wants this. 

He thinks Bruce does. 

‘I only quit today,’ Clark says, tone wry, ‘who told you?’

Bruce smirks. ‘I had breakfast with the commissioner.’

‘Okay.’ Clark reaches for him. Curls his fingers around the back of Bruce’s neck. 

Leaning against Clark’s bike, Bruce is a little lower than him. His skin is warm beneath Clark’s touch, his hair strong and fine between Clark’s fingers as he steps even closer, into the space between Bruce’s thighs. Bruce’s hair is long enough that Clark can fist it in his hand and use it to tilt Bruce’s face up.

‘Two and a half weeks, Bruce,’ he says.

They’re drawing stares. Clark really doesn’t care. Bruce’s breath is soft against his mouth, his gaze sharp and unapologetic. Bruce takes his hands out of his pockets and Clark feels them slide under his jacket, broad hands sliding up and over his ribs, sliding round to Clark’s back.

‘Sorry.’ It’s offered in a mild tone and with an arched eyebrow.

Yeah. Clark knows exactly what that feeling in the pit of his stomach is.

God. Bruce is such an asshole.

Bruce’s mouth is soft. 

Soft and pliant and opens for Clark when he nips at Bruce’s bottom lip, letting Clark tilt his head back further, letting Clark eat at his mouth with his fingers threaded into Bruce’s hair, holding Bruce still for his tongue. Clark can live with this kind of surrender. With the slick heat of Bruce’s mouth and the sharp nips of his teeth and the rough hands gripping Clark’s hips. Bruce urging him close enough that he feels Bruce rock forward, swelling in his fine tailored trousers against Clark’s thigh.

It's the wolf whistle that breaks them apart but neither of them go too far, stay as they are, foreheads touching, sharing each other’s air.

‘Does that mean you’ll give me a ride?’ Bruce asks. His mouth is red. He’s still smirking.

‘If I give you a ride, I’m not taking you to the lake house,’ Clark says, and he tucks his face into the crook of Bruce’s neck. Wraps his arms around him and just breathes. Bruce smells good. ‘I’m taking you home.’

‘Alright.’

Clark pulls back. ‘Alright.’

He moves, gives Bruce just enough space to straighten up and then slides into the seat. The sound of the motorbike is loud enough that they garner a few more looks. Clark is too busy feeling pleased at Bruce sliding right on behind him and wrapping his arms around Clark, to give them his usual apologetic look.

Yes. Clark likes this.

‘Later,’ Clark says, and he knows Bruce can hear him well enough because Bruce turns his face into Clark, nose brushing against Clark’s ear as he waits, ‘I’ll show you what it’s like to fly.’

For a moment, Bruce doesn’t say anything. ‘As long as we don’t get caught.’

Clark ducks his head, pleasure blooming warm and sweet. ‘We won’t.’ 

This time, when he takes the Bat with him, arms tight and relaxed all along Clark’s back, Clark takes him home.

And later, after they’ve eaten, after Clark has checked all of the new bruises tattooed along Bruce’s back, after he’s seen Bruce panting, laid out Clark’s cheap sofa, cock red and shiny and wet in Clark’s fist—after that, Clark smiles, wide and with the same mischief as a kid as he steps off the building with Bruce’s eyes right on him and trusting Clark not to drop him.

They don’t get seen.

~The End~


End file.
